


Stan did not get it

by Mira_Mirai



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: AO 2014, Australian Open, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Fedal - Freeform, M/M, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 10:36:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15483882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira_Mirai/pseuds/Mira_Mirai
Summary: Stan had never got it. Never ever. I mean, Nadal, really?Yeah, he was incredibly good, but so was Novak.Yeah, maybe he was attractive, but not like Safin or López.Also, he was weird and compulsive, quiet and frowny.And last but not least, he had truly and royally fucked up Roger’s career.And yet, Roger was insanely and irrevocably in love with him.And Stan did not get it.Or: After winning the Australian Open defeating Rafa, Stan contemplates Rafa's and Roger's relationship. Also, he drinks a whole bottle of champagne and decides to call Roger. Bad idea.





	Stan did not get it

**Author's Note:**

> So doing research for the Perfect Rafa story I rewatched the painful 2014 Australian Open final, where mid-match Rafa got injured and ended up playing through and it was really painful to watch. And still, he was gracious and kind to everyone, specially Stan. So, that made me think and this happened. 
> 
> It's just a short one-shot. For the sake of the story, Roger and Rafa have been in a relationship since 2008. The story is set the night of the Australian Open, after the final. 
> 
> As always, not a native English speaker. So mistakes are my own. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

 

Stan had never got it. Never ever. I mean, Nadal, really?

 

Yeah, he was incredibly good, but so was Novak.

Yeah, maybe he was attractive, but not like Safin or López.

Also, he was weird and compulsive, quiet and frowny.

And last but not least, he had truly and royally fucked up Roger’s career.

Without him, Roger would have gotten his Career Grand Slam in 2005 instead of 2009 and would probably have 31 Majors by now instead of 17.

And yet, Roger was insanely and irrevocably in love with him.

 

And Stan did not get it.

 

Why?

Roger could have anyone. Literally anyone on the planet.

Movie stars and elite athletes included.

And yet, he had chosen that temperamental and unpolished guy from a tiny island who was always with his uncle like he was 7 and not 27. A guy with awkward manners, no sophistication to speak of and not even a decent grasp of the English language.

Stan really didn’t get it.

How did they even communicate? Nadal wasn’t capable of having a deep conversation in English, so how? Maybe that was the key though. Maybe Roger didn’t want to spend time talking to Nadal.

 

That, maybe, Stan could get.

 

The Fedal matches got really intense.

It was possible that after one-too-many-times of losing to him, Roger, angry and high on adrenaline had pinned Nadal into a locker and had his way with him. That was possible. Stan himself had had such inklings.

More often than not, after losing to Roger or having to sit through another presser where all anyone wanted to know was how the other Swiss felt about the Maestro.

But he had never acted on it.

In part because he knew Roger was so deeply committed to Nadal that it would be a waste of time. But also, because Stan was a man with little self-control and he knew, deep inside, that if he went that route, he would never get back. And he couldn’t afford that, because, at the end of the day, he wasn’t Roger Federer or Rafael Nadal.

 

So the easiest explanation was this: Roger and Rafa had an intense and crazy physical connection that bound them together.

Okay.

But that didn’t last long.

That sort of passion, and Stan considered himself lucky enough to have known it, never lasted long. It was the brightest of fires, but it burned really fast.

That could explain a few months, maybe even a whole season. But not the seven years of puppy eyes and embarrassingly long moments at the net the whole tour was used to enduring.

 

So, Stan, truly, did not get it.

 

Because for something to last this long… especially when the two members of the couple have an insane and gruelling schedule that takes them around the world and are both so famous everyone wants to know everything about them and they have to keep said relationship a secret because it would not be accepted and, last but not least, when they are the biggest rivals the sport has ever seen… for that to happen, whatever holds them together must be insanely strong.

And there is where Stan got lost…

Because it was easy for him to think that someone could feel that strongly about Roger, because he was Roger… but, Nadal? Really? Was he worthy of that kind of devotion?

 

Yesterday, Stan would have said no. Today…

 

Today Stan had won his first Grand Slam.

 

Today was the reward for two decades of sacrifice. Two decades of sweat, blood and tears. Two decades of saying no to many things just so he could say yes to tennis. Today was the confirmation that all of that effort had not been in vain. Today was the day Stan joined the magic list of Grand Slam winners. Today was the day he took a confident step to get closer to the huge shadow Roger cast upon him.

Today was what he’d been dreaming of for years and years.

 

And he had dreamed of it in a million different ways.

Some epic, some anticlimactic, some just decent, but they all ended with his hands raising a huge trophy, so Stan wouldn’t have complained however it happened. He wasn’t greedy. The how didn’t matter, only the if mattered.

But, even to him, the way it had happened was almost too good to be true.

 

He had won his first Grand Slant title defeating Rafael Nadal.

Yes.

He had slayed the beast, the bull, the king of Clay.

And, not only that, he had done it after Nadal had defeated Roger in the semi-finals. So he was a hero to Switzerland’s eyes. Because he had avenged Roger by beating his executioner and had not taken the trophy from him. So, perfection.

Perfection beyond his imagination.

Only, no.

It had gone like that. But also, so much more had happened so Stan was… not happy.

He was just, mostly confused.

 

And he really didn’t get why he was feeling this way.

 

So sitting in his luxurious balcony with his feet up on the table where the cup and an opened bottle of champagne laid, Stan decided to take his phone out and make a call he would probably regret.

 

“Hey” he said as soon as he heard the call connect. “Hey, man! Congrats!”

 

Stan took a long swing of the bottle “You mean that?” Roger’s laugh vibrated thought the line “Of course.”

 

“But I defeated your lover. And I even kicked him when he was down. I pushed him to play when he was injured. Are you sure you want to congratulate me?” He hadn’t meant to say that much.

 

“Stan…” Roger’s sweet tone really got to his nerves “No, I mean that. These two sets of pain could maybe be it for him. Maybe he’s broken for good this time. It wasn’t even his knee, it was his back, so I caused a new injury for Nadal, maybe a fatal one. Maybe I’ve become his murderer.”

 

He heard Roger take a very long breath “Stan, what brought this on?”

 

One last swing and he finished the bottle. He set it right next to the heavy and shiny silver cup “I don’t like Nadal.”

 

Roger was somewhere in the city. In some other hotel, some distance away and still, Stan could see his smile after that last comment. “I know. You’ve said it… a hundred times at least.”

 

Maybe drinking the whole thing by himself hadn’t been a good idea, but he couldn’t find it in him to care “I never got what you see in him.”

 

“Better for me.” Laughed Roger.

 

It had actually been a really bad idea. “Until today” whispered Stan.

 

Roger’s silences were a powerful thing. More powerful even than Roger’s words. This one stretched and stretched until Stan couldn’t take it anymore. “Today he was so strong, so brave. Stupidly so.”

 

“Yeah… Specially that last bit.”

 

Stan lifted his right foot until his toes made contact with the cold shiny metal. He was caressing the Norman Brooks Challenge Cup with his unwashed feet just because he could. “Why didn’t he retire? It was obvious he was in pain. Hell, he couldn’t even serve.”

 

“And still he took a set” Roger reminded him. Like Stan wasn’t privy to that information. Like that hadn’t astonished him. Roger let out a sigh as he sat down somewhere “When he went to take his medical break while you were demanding to know what was happening to the umpire, we talked. He called me. I said: How bad? And he said: Bad. And that means really fucking excruciatingly bad. So I said: Okay, retire. Come to the hotel. Let’s call the doctor and figure things out. And he said: Yes, Rogi. Once the match is over. And I said: Rafa, you’re injured, it’s over. And he replied: It will be Stan’s first Grand Slam, he deserves to win the match fair. He doesn’t deserve to win by retire. He deserves this. So I play.”

 

“Fuck.” Stan pushed the cup away with his foot without realizing, it started to tumble but the weight straightened it back up. Stan took his feet off the table. “Yeah…”

 

He looked at the sky. It was clear, but he could only see a handful of stars. Just as well, he still had a handful of stupid things to say. And Roger and he had reached that point in their conversation where they both cursed, and he always liked that. “He hugged me at the net and he was fucking kind. And he was so sweaty, but it actually smelled kind of good. And when I leaned over him I saw his ass. I never realized he had such a great ass.”

 

Roger chuckled “The best on tour. I guarantee that.”

 

“And then… in his speech. First thing he does is congratulate me, and he goes on and on, about how great I am and how much of friend I am. And… fuck, Roger, I didn’t know he was like that.”

 

“I know” his voice is low and grave.

 

“And then, he almost cried but he forced himself to smile and… fuck me, that’s one fucking beautiful smile.” Roger hummed in agreement. Stan bit his lip, “So, how mad at me would you be if I pursued him?”

 

Roger was back to smiling, Stan could sense it “You can try. But by some miracle, he’s in love with me too.” Stan made a dismissive sound “Also, Stanislas, if you really try, I’ll kill you.” Stan laughed.

 

“Rafa is right though”, Roger continued “It’s well deserved, Stan. A Grand Slam is not the final point, or the final game or even the final match. It’s a whole tournament. And even more than that, it’s how long is has taken you to even make the cut, to get to the main draw, to become a seeded player. And you’re right were you belong Stan. Enjoy it, revel in it. You have a Grand Slam. I’m sure it won’t be the last.”

 

Stan wished for another bottle of champagne “It will be my last if I decide to hit on Rafa though.”

 

“You’re a smart man, Stan. That’s why I let you play doubles with me.”

 

“People don’t really know how much of an asshole you are…”

 

Roger giggled “They really don’t”.

 

He heard a door close at the other end of the line and then he heard that infamous voice “Rogi, who is on phone?”

 

“Stan”

 

He heard steps now “Oh. Give me. I talk.” Stan got nervous. “Hello, Stan. Congratulations again.”

 

“Hello, Rafa. How are you feeling?” He suddenly felt like he was fourteen again.

 

“Not so good. But I think I be okay” He could almost see that dimpled smile. “You now enjoy, look for nice place to put trophy and rest a little.” His voice got a serious edge “Then go train on clay. In Roland Garros I hope I see you and we have a good match. I make you run for sure. So you train hard, no?”

 

God, that was hot. How hadn’t he noticed that his stupid Spanish accent sounded so hot? “I will” he said breathlessly, he hoped Rafa hadn’t noticed.

 

“Good. Okay. I give phone to Roger, I have to go back to the ice bath.” There was some rustling as the phone exchanged hands. “Yes, do that. You shouldn’t walk around the room naked, Raf” scolded Roger.

 

The voice was a bit far, but still loud enough “You never complain when I am naked, Rogi.”

 

Now, that wasn’t hot, that was sex made into words. Shit.

 

“Stan… I have to go” said Roger in an unmistakable tone before hanging up.

 

Shit. Fuck. Fuck. Shit. Fuck.

 

Roger might have to kill him after all.

 

Because, fuck, now Stan got it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts?


End file.
